Valentine, page 4
He looked back through the falling snow at the window across the way. She and Nate were definitely in for the night. He crushed out the cigarette, stood up, and took off his jacket, shirt, boots, and jeans. He switched off the dim lamp and threw himself down on the little bed in the corner.
He would not sleep much tonight. He would lie awake, as he did every night, thinking about the three dead women. And about Jillian Talbot.
It was now Friday, January 30. Two weeks, he thought. Two weeks to go until Saturday, February 14.
Valentine’s Day.
2
SATURDAY, JANUARY 31
“What is it, Jill?” Tara asked. “What’s wrong?”
Jill looked up from her menu. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on!” the actress cried, leaning forward and placing her elbows squarely on the table. “All afternoon you’ve been very nervous. I know you don’t like public appearances, but this is more than that. What’s the matter?”
Jill shook her head and smiled weakly. She didn’t know how to bring up the subject without sounding like a lunatic, or, at the very least, an alarmist. But her friend was right: she was nervous.
Yesterday had gone all right—well, almost. There had been that moment at the store. She’d written for most of the day, only going out briefly to the nearest supermarket. She’d found herself constantly looking around and behind her, all the way to the store and back. At one point, while she was debating with herself between chicken cutlets and a small roasting chicken, she glanced over at the tall, dark-haired young man in the leather coat who seemed to have materialized a few feet away, apparently making a similar decision. She stood quite still, clutching her two choices tightly, watching surreptitiously as he began to edge toward her. He was looking down into the freezer, but she was suddenly, keenly aware of his proximity. She looked around: there was no one else in sight here at the back of the store. The man came closer, closer. She could feel the heat emanating from his body, and she realized with a swift, awful certainty that she could not will herself to move. Then, when his arm inevitably brushed against hers, she nearly gasped aloud. The young man looked up, smiled, and moved away, his attention once more dropping to the frozen food. Only then did she relax, and her grip on the two plastic-wrapped packages loosened. She’d recognized the smile immediately; she used it herself every day. Polite, but essentially empty, disinterested. When the pretty, extremely pregnant young woman arrived at his side, removed the fryer parts from his hand, and pointed down at a large roaster, he grunted with displeasure, and Jill actually giggled. The woman smiled over at her and rolled her eyes. Men, her eyes said: leave it to them, and we’d live on nothing but deep-fried foods. Jill nodded and pushed her cart away, trying to bring her inane giggling under control. Several people glanced over at her as she strolled down the aisle, laughing all the way, toward the checkout counter.
She was at the cash register when she realized that she’d dropped both packages of chicken in the cart. Too disconcerted to explain her mistake to the girl who was already ringing them up, she ended up with both. Oh, well, she told herself as she hurried home, I can freeze one. . . .
She ate dinner, spoke briefly with Nate on the phone, and went back into her office. For a long time she sat staring at the computer screen. Then, on an impulse, she began to type, her fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard: When she was finished, she read back over what she’d written. It was a vivid, paranoid scene in which her heroine—the stalking victim—silently freaked out in the frozen-food section of her local supermarket, certain that the innocent stranger beside her was her anonymous tormentor.
This afternoon Tara had accompanied Jill to Murder Ink, the mystery bookstore on Broadway. The publisher sent a limousine for them, and they picked up Mary Daley on the way. Jill spent much of the ride rigid on the backseat between her agent and her other friend, staring at the back of the driver’s head, wondering if he was a legitimate chauffeur. She briefly imagined a scenario of the real driver on some hazy warehouse floor, bound and gagged in his undershirt and shorts, while this man, in stolen livery, savored his closeness to his prey. The three women alighted in front of the bookstore, and Jill practically ran inside.
The crowd waiting for her was predominantly female, but she noticed quite a few men as well. Her male readership had been growing with each successive title. This should have cheered her, the all-important crossing of the gender line that most writers would cherish. But she found herself glancing sharply up from the little table at the back of the shop, searching the face of every man who arrived before her with a book to be autographed.
Mary and Tara stood at either side of her behind the table, and the actress caused almost as much of a stir as the author. The proprietor of the store was pleased: two celebrities for the price of one. The crowd remained steady for longer than the allotted hour, and afterward Jill lingered to sign the contents of several cartons of The Mind of Alice Lanyon, to be shipped to fans and collectors all over America. A very pleasant afternoon, really. But all the while she smiled at everyone, the fans and the bookstore staff and her two friends, she wondered how they would react if they knew how she was feeling, and why.
Now she and Tara were here at Carmine’s, the enormous, popular Italian restaurant on Broadway and Ninety-first Street, two blocks south of the bookstore. Mary had rushed off to another engagement after the signing, and Jill had dismissed the chauffeur and asked the people in the bookstore to recommend a nice place in the neighborhood for dinner. The cleaning woman, Mrs. Price, was in Jill’s apartment on Saturdays from five to seven, and she didn’t like having people underfoot while she worked, so Jill always dined in restaurants on Saturday. She looked around the cavernous interior of the dining room, realizing that she now felt more comfortable in large crowds than she ever had before.
Tara was still studying her closely, she noticed.
“You tell me what’s going on with you,” the actress warned, “or no dessert!”
They laughed together as the waiter arrived with their dinner. Seeing the size of the platter of ravioli he lowered between them, Jill wondered if no dessert was really a punishment. Her smile faded as she looked up to meet her friend’s penetrating gaze. She took a long, deep breath, preparing herself.
Then she told Tara about the valentine.
He’d been in luck: the deadbolt on her apartment door was unlocked. The little lock in the doorknob had been easier than the main entrance downstairs. The elevator had been a risk, but here he was, actually inside the apartment he’d been observing from across the street for the last two weeks.
He stood in the center of the large, beautifully furnished living room, gazing slowly around him, taking in every detail. A big, enclosed, hollow space with an opening on the room: that is what he was seeking. He’d already placed the tiny chip inside the receiver of the phone in the office. Now it was a matter of concealing the little unidirectional microphone and its attendant activating mechanism somewhere in this room. He dropped his gaze to the equipment that fit so easily in the palm of his right hand, marveling yet again at the progress of modern science. The two bugs and the listening devices—the sound-activated tape recorder and headphones that now waited in his room across the street—had been remarkably simple to obtain. A reasonably intelligent, motivated fifteen-year-old could purchase all of this from any one of hundreds of establishments in Manhattan alone.
A big, hollow space . . . not the breakfront: the glass cabinets on top and wood shelves below were completely enclosed, soundproof. That was the problem with the drawers in the room as well. This left the furniture . . . the couch. There was a gap, perhaps three inches, between the bottom of the seat and the floor. Yes . . .
Carefully, he tilted the couch until it was lying on its back, the four short legs sticking out toward him. The underside, viewed from this angle, was hollow, the stuffed undercushion and solid-looking metal rib frame several inches above the opening at the bottom. The side and front panels just above the legs were wood. Perfect. He reached in the inside pocket of his leather coat and produced a roll of thick plastic tape.
Three minutes later, all was in place. He set the couch back in its original upright position, careful to match the feet to the indentations in the carpet. He spent the next five minutes moving swiftly through the apartment, searching, his sneakered feet making no sound on the floor. Not that it mattered: he knew she was signing at a bookstore uptown this afternoon, and that Tara Summers was with her. He’d watched from his window as the two women had been handed into the big black limousine nearly an hour ago. His search was a luxury he felt he could afford: she’d be out at least a couple of hours. And he had to ascertain one thing, to know beyond a doubt one particular detail of her life.
No, he decided at last. She didn’t have a weapon. No gun, no Mace, no alarm system worth a damn, either on the doors or the windows. Perhaps she kept Mace, or even a gun, in her purse, but he doubted it. And what was the point of the deadbolt on the front door if she wasn’t going to use it? She was completely vulnerable.
Getting to her would be a snap.
He took one more quick look around, to assure himself that everything, every single thing, was as he had found it. As she had left it. He was about to leave as he had come—he’d use the stairs this time—when he gave in to the final pang of curiosity. With a quick glance at his watch, he moved silently over to the little end table. He’d seen it there, in his first search for places to conceal the microphone.
He reached down into the drawer and picked up the bright pink envelope. He pulled out the card and opened it. Yes, he thought, nodding his head slowly. Yes . . .
He had just put the envelope back where he’d found it and pushed the drawer closed when he suddenly became aware of the sounds from outside, from the other side of the apartment door. He reached swiftly up with his left hand to pull the black ski mask down over his face, the right hand dropping automatically into his coat pocket and closing around the switchblade.
As he listened, the elevator door rumbled open. This sound was followed by the slap of solid, flat shoes on the uncarpeted foyer and the sudden, loud jingle of keys at the lock.
“My God, Jill, that is just Creep City!”
“You’re telling me?” Jill pushed her plate away, the ravioli barely touched, and reached for her water glass. She watched in faint amusement as Tara continued to shovel in the rich food while she talked. Tara could eat under any circumstances, even these. Excitement, anger, fear; they had the odd effect of whetting, rather than dulling, her appetite. Actors, Jill thought.
“Two things,” Tara muttered, scooping up a ravioli. “First, weapons. Second, police. Definitely. Now, wait a minute”—she held up her hand, cutting off Jill’s automatic protest—“I know what you’re going to say. You have a can of Mace in your purse, and you don’t want to bother the cops with anything so trivial, yadda yadda. Sure.” She finally put down her busy fork and leaned forward, looking directly into Jill’s eyes. “You’ve seen me on Tomorrow’s Children, right? You know the gal who plays Clarissa, Betty Hanes—with the big boobs and all that red hair? Well, this happened to her!” She nodded once, as if that explained everything, and reached for the fork. Jill’s hand beat her to it.
“What?” Jill said, clamping down on the fork before Tara could once more fill her mouth. “What happened to her?”
“This. Same song, second verse.” Tara leaned back in her chair. “Anonymous notes. Phone calls in the middle of the night. Someone kept sending her messages, like, ‘I want you, and if I can’t have you, I’m going to kill you.’ Then, one day, she went back to her dressing room after a taping and found her street clothes slashed to ribbons.” She leaned forward, dropping her voice to a whisper. “And her undies were gone!”
Jill’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God!”
“Yeah,” Tara said. “Cute, huh? Well, for the next few days, we had these police officers all over the studio. They escorted her to and from work, staked out her apartment, the whole bit. Unfortunately, nothing happened. And they finally dropped it. It wasn’t their fault, really. I mean, this is New York, and the cops have lots to do. So, Betty hired this guy, this private eye. Nobody else knew about it. We were told he was a new associate producer. Two days later he caught someone in her dressing room, stealing more undies.”
“Wow,” Jill whispered. “What did they do to him?”
Tara registered confusion. “Him who?”
“The guy who stole her undies.”
Once again, Tara leaned forward. “My dear, it wasn’t a guy. It was the prop girl, of all things.”
Jill shook her head in disbelief. “I’ve never heard of that. I know quite a few lesbians, and none of them would ever—”
“Oh, she wasn’t a lesbian.” Tara waved her hand dismissively and reached again for her fork. “You see, Betty was dating one of the cameramen on the show. Before her, he’d been with the prop girl, and she gat pregnant. So he dropped her and took up with poor Betty, who knew nothing about any of it. Prince Charming, right? The girl was trying to freak Betty off of the show so she could get back with him. That’s when we knew she was crazy! But, hey, she does a great job with the props.”
“You mean she’s still there?” Jill’s eyes widened.
Tara speared another ravioli. “Sure. Betty didn’t press charges. Gave the cameraman a black eye, though. In front of the entire company! He was canned, and the girl got a raise. She just had the baby, a little girl, and she and Betty are pals. Now she’s dating one of the writers—the prop girl, not Betty.” She smiled and popped the pasta into her mouth.
The story, bizarre though it was, bordered on the ridiculous. Jill restrained herself from laughing. “So, what’s your point?”
The fork clattered down onto Tara’s plate, and her smile disappeared. “My point is this: don’t screw around. Okay, it’s just a weirdo card, and maybe you’ll never hear from—whoever—again. But you don’t know that. You say you’re nervous? You’re right to be nervous! Betty was lucky. Her wacko wasn’t really a wacko, just a mixed-up, flaky girl who was pregnant and desperate. But that didn’t stop Betty from replacing the Mace in her purse.” She glanced around at the nearby tables and leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Now she carries a little friend around in there. It answers to the name Lady Wesson.”
Jill shut her eyes and turned her face away. “I can’t do that. That’s not an option; it’s not the kind of person I am.”
“Yeah,” Tara said, nodding sagely. “That’s what Betty said. At first.”
“How about you?” Jill cried. Then, as the waiter arrived with dessert menus, she, too, leaned forward to whisper. “Could you ever do that?”
A slow smile came to Tara’s lips. She reached back, unhooked her shoulder bag from the back of her chair, and held it out.
“Care to look in there?” she said.
Jill stared.
“Okay,” her friend said, putting the bag back on her chair. “I guess we’ll wait on that. But at least tell the police. So they have it on record.”
“You have a gun?” Jill was still assimilating this. “Has—has anything like that ever happened to you?”
Before Tara could answer, the waiter handed them the menus. Then he held out a small notepad and pen. “Ms. Summers, I don’t want to bother you, but I’m your biggest fan. Could I have your autograph?”
The actress produced a smile that could light New York City, signed the pad, and handed it back. The waiter thanked her and hurried away. The two women watched him go. Then Jill watched as her friend sat back and grinned across the table.
“Hey,” Tara said, “you never know.”
Gloria Price came into Jillian Talbot’s apartment and took off her plaid winter coat, the one Lou had surprised her with last Christmas. It was a combination Christmas/thirtieth-anniversary present, not merely attractive but surprisingly warm as well. She loved wearing it, because of the warmth and because of what it represented. She smiled to herself, thinking, now that both kids have kids of their own, Lou finds reasons to spoil me. I’m his surrogate child. And he’s mine.
That’s why she was here today. They both had nine-to-five jobs, and on Saturday afternoons she cleaned apartments in several neighborhood buildings for extra cash. Lou was retiring next year, and they were moving to Florida. She was saving up for his new golf clubs.
She glanced over at the coat closet next to the front door. Then, with a shrug, she dropped the coat onto the couch and headed for the kitchen. Florida, she thought, chuckling. I won’t need the beautiful coat much longer: next Christmas, he should buy me a bathing suit!
This was her favorite of the apartments she cleaned. It was certainly the most attractive, and she liked Jillian Talbot. The other two “professional women” whose places she did were nags, and that was a fact. But Jill Talbot was always cheerful, always friendly, and she was wise enough to leave the cleaning decisions to a woman who’d been cleaning since before Jill was born. She paid the best, too. And now Gloria had signed copies of all her books. Good books, Gloria thought: a little scary for her taste, but fun.
She reached in the utility closet next to the refrigerator for the vacuum cleaner, then rummaged under the sink for furniture polish and glass cleaner. She was about to go into the bedroom when she glanced at the microwave oven above the range, glanced at her watch, and made a decision. She took a mug from the rack near the sink, filled it with tap water, and opened the overhead cabinet containing the instant coffee.
